JOSEPH CUSUMANO - THE VIGIL

Joseph Cusumano is a physician living in St. Louis. His writing has been accepted by Crimson Streets, Pseudopod,Mystery Weekly, Disturbed Digest, Flash Fiction Press, Heater, Agents and Spies (a Flametree anthology), Bride of Chaos/9 Tales series, and Litmag (University of Missouri).

THE VIGIL
​March, 1941

​            Max Bauer did his best to ignore the pain in his right leg as he walked to the meeting. The army surgeon had extracted as much shrapnel as possible, but more than two decades later he still walked with a limp. A taxi ride to his destination at an apartment building on New York City's West Side would have saved time and considerable discomfort, but Max was determined to stay fit. And for a stocky fifty-one year old German WW I veteran, he maintained a respectable pace.
            When he arrived, most of the other members of the group, all European émigrés like himself, were seated and engrossed in several separate discussions. A dense cloud of cigarette smoke told Bauer that he must be a few minutes late; but Ira Koppel, the former editor of Die Berliner until Hitler had taken power, greeted him warmly. "Max! Glad you could make it. I've got some good news to share." Bauer took a seat next to Urzula Dabrowski, an attractive Polish chemist who made it difficult for Max to keep his mind on business.
            "So what's this good news you've promised us, Herr Koppel?" Jean-Pierre Weiss, a former French industrialist, asked the group's moderator. Koppel stood at the end of the large table until the conversations quieted.
            "I met with Senator Bullard last week in his office. It was very private, just he and I, and he gave me an update on the M3 tank. As you know, in October of last year the British government expressed interest in purchasing a new American tank, and in January of this year, the passage of the Lend-Lease Program put a deal within their reach. Senator Bullard let me know that Chrysler recently assembled the first M3 tanks in one of their Michigan factories, and the tanks are now on their way to the proving grounds at Aberdeen, Maryland." This elicited big smiles and a solid round of applause from all gathered, especially Horst Mullheim, who at Bullard's request had provided crucial testimony in closed-door sessions of the American Committee on Military Affairs.
            That Mullheim was a member of a coterie of people who had fled Europe as German troops violated the borders established by the 1918 armistice was a source of amazement to Max Bauer. As recently as 8 months ago, Mullheim had been an adjutant to General Heinz Guderian, the originator of the blitzkrieg tactics used so successfully against Poland, Belgium, and France in 1939 and 1940. But on learning that Hitler planned to invade the Soviet Union, Mullheim concluded that the Fuhrer was about to make a colossal blunder. Hadn't Germany's experience from 1914 to 1918 proven the folly of fighting a two-front war, to say nothing of Napoleon's disastrous foray into Russia? So with his wife and two young children, Mullheim left Germany in the middle of the night. He would always love his fatherland, but was convinced that Hitler would lead Germany into another catastrophe.
            "Now the information I've shared with you regarding the M3 tank is not classified," Koppel continued, "but the Senator has asked that we keep it to ourselves. He was willing to inform us only because we've been helpful to him and his committee."
            "Bullard's coming up for election next year, and he's going to face a lot of opposition," Urzula Dabrowski said.
            "Why?" Max Bauer asked.
            "Because of the America First movement," she answered. "They're very strong in his state, close to 70,000 voters. Not only do they want to make sure that the U.S. stays out of the war in Europe, they're even opposed to shipping supplies to Britain."
            "And they've got a powerful advocate and spokesman in Charles Lindbergh," Koppel added. Koppel turned to Weiss, the industrialist who had fled France when the Nazis encouraged the citizens of his occupied homeland to turn in their Jewish countrymen. "Jean-Pierre, can you help fund the Senator's reelection campaign?"
            Without hesitating, Weiss answered. "How much does he need?"
            "I'll find out," Koppel answered.
            "Good. I'll need a little time to liquidate assets in order to raise cash, so let me know as soon as possible," Weiss answered. Koppel thanked him and then began a report on the group's efforts to help recent émigrés find housing and employment.
            Several hours later when the meeting ended, Max Bauer invited Urzula Dabrowski to come by his studio some time to see his latest works on canvas. "That would be lovely!" she replied, and Bauer couldn't agree more.

                                                                      .          .          .  

            "Admiral, this arrived today and I thought you should see it," Leutnant Krebbs said.
            Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, chief of the Abwehr — Germany's Intelligence Agency — looked up from the mess on his desk. He was irritated by the interruption, and his aide realized this wasn't the best time to be bringing alarming news.
            "It was delivered from our embassy in New York City by diplomatic pouch. It's from Katapult. Several months ago, you instructed me to bring any message from Katapult to your immediate attention."
            "Well, give me the gist of it," Canaris replied.
            "Sir, last year Katapult infiltrated a group of approximately twenty European émigrés in New York City who are doing everything possible to convince the American government to step up aid to Britain. This group also wants the U.S. to become directly involved in the war by sending American soldiers and warships to Europe. Katapult says the Americans are currently testing a new tank which British troops will deploy in North Africa. In addition, one of the émigrés, Jean-Pierre Weiss, is about to make a major donation to support the reelection of Senator Nick Bullard, who has been convincing his fellow lawmakers that America needs to actively participate in the war."
            Canaris perked up at the mention of Weiss, the Jewish industrialist who had fled France before he could be interrogated and sent to a camp. Weiss had also managed to take a considerable portion of his wealth with him, although his real estate holdings and manufacturing plants in France had all been confiscated. Ultimately, Canaris had had to take responsibility for Weiss's escape, and his standing among the governmental elite had been tarnished. As a result, the admiral's rivals in the Reich, sensing an opportunity, sought to have him replaced with one of their own men. This went on for several months until the Fuhrer made it clear that Canaris would keep his position. But the admiral knew that if Weiss succeeded in getting Senator Bullard reelected, Hitler could lose the forbearance he had shown thus far and choose someone else to lead the Abwehr. In a private meeting with the Fuhrer, the admiral was told that America's entry into the war must be delayed. German scientists were hard at work on new superweapons, including the Heisenberg device, but they needed time. Even a few extra months could be crucial to the eventual outcome of the war.
            The aide, catching the expression of alarm on his chief's face, asked, "Admiral, what would you like me to do?"
            The admiral knew he couldn't keep the new tank out of British hands, nor could Katapult try to obtain the specs for it without bringing suspicion on himself. But the situation with Weiss was another matter. Canaris said, "Refresh my memory. What did Katapult do during the Great War?"
            "Infantry, sir. He served with distinction. In the trenches. But this is his first mission as an agent of the Abwehr."
            "Who's his observer?"
            "Raven, sir. But as you ordered, Katapult was not made aware of Raven."
            Now Canaris remembered. He had selected Katapult for this intelligence-gathering mission because the Abwehr might have need of his special talent. Although unproven, Katapult had seemed to be the best available match at the time for what the mission might eventually demand. But Katapult had a quality that could be his undoing. His excess of initiative could make him difficult to rein in and function as part of an organization.
            "Leutnant, bring me Raven's file," Canaris ordered.
            "Admiral, I don't have the clearance to access that file." That meant the file was in Canaris's office safe. After dismissing his aide, the admiral headed for the safe and entered the combination. Its contents were sufficiently well organized that he located Raven's dossier in moments. He returned to his desk, opened the file and reviewed the documents.
            Raven was among the Abwehr's most valued agents, someone whom Canaris would be loathe to put at risk of exposure. A careful and restrained team member with an impressive compilation of successful missions, Raven was the polar opposite to Katapult. Nevertheless, Canaris had placed a bet that they could fulfill complementary roles and function as an effective duo.
            As incautious as it might be to unleash Katapult, Canaris now felt that the information he had just received left him no choice. If Weiss's campaign contribution helped Bullard get reelected, the Abwehr would get a new chief. But Raven's identity had to be protected, even from Katapult, at any cost. If Germany's enemies ever uncovered Raven's identity, a number of vital operations established by Raven would be compromised.
            Twenty minutes later, his aide aid left the Blenderblock office complex with two sets of orders to be delivered to the German embassy in NYC, one for Raven, the other for Katapult.

​April, 1941

​            Jean-Pierre Weiss placed a recording of Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" on his phonograph and settled into an armchair in the parlor of his spacious Upper East Side home, and the moment he heard the opening clarinet riff, his mood began to lighten. His wife and daughter, out for an evening of ballet, had been gone only fifteen minutes when he had begun a descent into one of his moods. Sometimes feeling isolated even on the crowded sidewalks of his adopted city, Weiss missed the constant interaction and challenge he had enjoyed as an industrialist in France. He was not scientifically inclined but knew how to grow a business. The engineers, accountants, and other technical types could always be hired from the pool of young graduates of excellent French universities, and when necessary, lured from other corporations. Now, his wealth of unscheduled time was burdensome. At some point, he would have to start a new business if for no other reason than to protect his emotional well being.        
            Jean-Pierre had been excited about living in America, especially in New York City, the birthplace of his favorite composer, and the famed metropolis had lived up to its reputation. Unlike Nantes, France where his corporate headquarters had been, Jean-Pierre's chosen sanctuary was a city of skyscrapers, the Chrysler Building his favorite. Never mind the greater height of the Empire State Building. And when Ira Koppel took him to Mama Leone's, he acquired a new appreciation for southern Italian cuisine.   
            But Jean-Pierre had not always been well fed. During the Great War, the French had struggled to provide for the men in the trenches just as the Germans had. Reduced rations during warm weather were bad enough. In cold weather, it meant pneumonia and death, and the soldiers weren't the only hungry ones in the trenches. Once he'd been awakened by a rat which had burrowed into his coat pocket in search of a small piece of sausage. On another occasion, a dead horse seemed to be coming back to life, its undulating corpse full of scavenging rats. Weiss had swapped stories with Max Bauer, who convinced him that the terriers the German soldiers had were more effective in holding down the rat population than the cats used by the French. Unlike cats, terriers had no interest in tormenting their prey, and after killing a rat, took no time to eat it before grabbing the next victim by its neck.


            Weiss rose from his armchair, lifted the tone arm of the phonograph before it reached the end of the recording, and headed for the wine cellar in the basement. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the wind slam his front door shut into its frame. This occasionally happened when a new deliveryman arrived with an armload of groceries. Someone unfamiliar with the house had just gained entrance.
            After descending the remaining steps to the basement, Weiss took hold of a thick walking stick he used when venturing out. He had a revolver in the bedroom he shared with his wife, but there was no way to retrieve it without risking an encounter. Better that he stay hidden. Most likely, this was a burglary that would end with nothing more than the loss of possessions easily replaced by his insurance.
            But curious as to what the intruder was doing, Weiss allowed himself to partially ascend the basement stairs. He heard no conversation, and the pattern of creaking floor boards also suggested to him that there was only one man above him. This was fortunate as an individual couldn't get away with his prized Zenith phonograph and radio. The wooden console was simply too bulky and heavy for one man to handle. Weiss listened for the opening and closing of drawers containing their fine silverware, but instead, the thief seemed to be making a quick inspection of the entire first floor.
            Next there was a rapid and regular succession of muffled steps as the intruder climbed the carpeted front staircase. In order to keep track of him, Weiss further ascended the basement stairs.
            When the intruder reached the second floor, he continued his quick survey of the rooms, apparently in search of a specific item. But what is he looking for? Weiss wondered. He could think of no particular possession that would motivate someone to break into his home.
            Although it had been less than five minutes since the wind had suddenly slammed his front door shut, a growing sense of indignation at the intrusion began to supplant his fear, and when Weiss heard his unwelcomed visitor descend the back staircase, he maintained his position near the top of the basement steps. If the thief now intended to leave, he would pass the entrance to the basement where Weiss stood, so Weiss quickly shut off the light that illuminated the basement steps and gripped his walking stick a little tighter. Although he was becoming angrier by the moment, a part of him knew that the most sensible course of action was to take no action. Just let him pass, he ordered himself. At certain points in the Battle of the Somme when front lines had shifted in ways no strategist could have foreseen, a take-no-action tactic had been the only means of survival. Stand down a little longer, he ordered himself.
            Then the intruder passed him and moments later was only several yards from the front door. The ordeal, whatever its purpose, was almost over, but then Weiss envisioned the man returning another day when his wife and daughter were alone in the house. And as if charging out of a trench, the former soldier leaped the last few steps up the staircase and hurled himself toward the enemy.
            Hearing a creaking floorboard, the intruder turned and just managed to dodge a blow aimed at his head. But his assailant was quick to strike again, and a club smashed into his raised forearm. Cursing his crazed attacker, the intruder fought back with a ferocity born of instinct and honed with training.
                                                                 .          .          .
                                                                        
            "Jean-Pierre, what happened?" The other émigrés were equally shocked, but Ira Koppel managed to find his voice first. Dark splotchy bruises covered Weiss's neck, and his lower lip was split. His left eye was swollen shut, and when he began to turn his head to see all of them, a bolt of pain shot through his neck and down his left arm.
            "I fought an intruder. In my house. Colette and Noelle were at the ballet. He got the front door open without a sound, but when the wind slammed it shut, I heard it from the basement," Weiss responded in a hoarse voice. He limped his way to the closest chair and carefully lowered himself into it.
            "A robbery?" Urzula Dabrowski asked.
            "That's what I thought, because he made a methodical search of the house. He was definitely searching for something. But as far as Colette and I can tell, nothing is missing."
            "You got a look at him?" Koppel asked.
            "No, he had a nylon stocking pulled over his head."
            "But he attacked you! That's terrible," Urzula said, apparently even more upset than the others. Weiss privately welcomed her great concern for him, but didn't let on that he could have allowed the intruder to leave without a confrontation.
            "Why did he have to attack you? Couldn't he just have run?" Horst Mullheim asked. Weiss shrugged. In truth, he was still trying to piece it all together, especially the man's intentions.
            "Have the police come up with any clues that might help? Something he left behind?" Max Bauer spoke up for the first time.
            "No," Weiss replied, shaking his head. "But when I smashed a walking stick into his forearm, he cursed me in German. He shouted verdammt!"
            "Then he could be an émigré, like us," Koppel said. "Well, not exactly like us," he added. Taking a closer look at his friend's neck, Koppel said, "The bastard tried to choke you, Jean-Pierre … was he trying to kill you?" Weiss didn't answer right away. When he looked up from the table, all were staring at him.
            "It felt like it at the time. He was ungodly strong," Weiss answered. "When he got his hands around my neck, I pretended to black out, and then kneed him hard in the groin. That's when he took off."
            They sat silently around the table for some time, each wondering what to make of it all. The incident evoked a type of fear which they had consigned to the past. On crossing the Atlantic and reaching the New York City harbor, they had believed they were safe. No one dared voice any notion that the attack was related to what they had fled in Europe.
            Eventually, the meeting resumed in subdued tones. The discussion of the conflicts in Europe continued, and most of the news was disheartening. The Greeks, who had fought with tremendous courage and managed to halt the invasion of their country by the Italian army, were crushed when Germany entered the fray. And in North Africa, General Erwin Rommel was living up to his reputation as the Desert Fox. The British forces were desperate for the first shipment of M3 tanks.
                                                            .          .          .

                "Max, we have to convince Jean-Pierre," Urzula Dabrowski said. The two of them sat in a west side diner near Columbus Circle, their empty plates now pushed to the side. "He'll listen if we approach him together."
            When Bauer had received a call from Urzula to meet for breakfast, he was delighted that she was showing more interest in him, but it turned out not to be a personal overture. Rather, Urzula wanted to talk tactics.
            She told Max that their group must have been infiltrated by someone hostile to their objectives. "That's why Jean-Pierre was beaten in his home."
            "You're saying it wasn't a robbery? That someone planned to attack or kill him?"
            "Absolutely. The intruder and his associates wanted to stop him from making the donation to Bullard's reelection campaign. They want to delay or even prevent America's entry into the war. The attack came soon after our last meeting when Jean-Pierre promised to send money. Do you remember him telling Ira Koppel that it would take a little time to convert assets into cash? We have to convince Jean-Pierre not to send the money."
            "But then these fanatics will have won. And it was you who pointed out that Bullard was facing a tough reelection battle because of the America First —"
            "But I never thought we would be putting Jean-Pierre's life at risk," Urzula countered. "Are you willing to do that? And it might not be America First. Maybe the individual who has infiltrated our group is an agent of the German war machine."
            "But Jean-Pierre's life would still be at risk. Even if he wrote the check today, they still might try to kill him," Max pointed out.
            "We don't really know that. It's entirely possible the attack was a warning to him and the rest of us. If he withdraws from the group now and never sends the money to Bullard, they might leave him in peace. They know it would be far better to stop Jean-Pierre without resorting to murder. A murder would lead to a much bigger investigation, and it might be brought to the attention of the FBI. Right now, it's just a robbery being handled by the local police."
            Bauer took a sip of his coffee, set the cup back on the table and leaned back in the wooden booth. Finally, he said, "Urzula, assuming we have been infiltrated, who among us do you suspect?"
            "I don't know," she said quietly. She looked up at him. "Do you have any thoughts?"
            "If I had to pick someone, it would be Horst Mullheim."
            "Why?"
            "I had a conversation with him after one of our meetings. You're aware that until recently Mullheim was one of General Guderian's adjutants." Urzula nodded. "During the Great War he served in the infantry and was temporarily blinded by mustard gas. His vision eventually returned, but his lungs were permanently damaged. It's why he's so short of breath now. Mullheim told me that Germany was on the brink of winning in 1918 when it was betrayed by the 'November Criminals.' That's what Hitler called the German politicians who signed the armistice that was so punishing to Germany."
            "Well, whoever is undermining us, there's one thing I'm certain of," Urzula replied. "We have to convince Jean-Pierre not to make the campaign contribution, and we have to do it at a meeting so that everyone in the group knows, including the mole."
            After several moments of silence, Max said, "Urzula, I have an idea of how we can protect Jean-Pierre and possibly uncover the infiltrator. If we actually have one."


                                                                   .          .          .


            Nothing had happened during the first night of their vigil. With his wife and daughter still safely ensconced at the Waldorf Astoria, Jean-Pierre Weiss welcomed Max Bauer into his home where the two of them would spend a second night together. All the curtains were drawn to prevent observation from the outside.
            As on the previous evening, each of them planned to pass the time reading and making sure the other stayed awake. The armchairs in the study were a bit too comfortable for watch duty, but the room was well illuminated. Although he could not offer Bauer a proper drink, Weiss had started a crackling blaze in the fireplace, and there were countless books in floor to ceiling shelves to keep the men occupied. Weiss asked Bauer if the two of them should stay in separate rooms to facilitate their plan, but Bauer said that it would increase the risk of one of them falling asleep. Weiss had to concur. They also agreed to keep their conversation to an absolute minimum. If the intruder returned, it was crucial that he believe that the owner of the house was alone.
 
            After privately informing Weiss of Bauer's plan to protect him, Dabrowski had called for an emergency meeting of the group, and with everyone present, she and Bauer urged Weiss not to make the contribution to Senator Bullard's campaign. But Weiss — having been coached by Dabrowski and Bauer — proclaimed for all to hear that he had no intention of backing down. The sale of some of his assets almost complete, he would have the money in two days' time and planned on mailing the check promptly. "We can't let the fascists intimidate us here also. There's nowhere else to run," he said. Almost everyone around the table nodded in agreement, but Weiss understood that if the group had been infiltrated, the informant would now have a very narrow window of opportunity to prevent the campaign contribution. None of the other émigrés were made aware that Max Bauer, properly armed, would be staying with Weiss. And by forcing the intruder to act so quickly, they could deny him much of the element of surprise. Dabrowski admired Bauer's clever plan to uncover the mole, but she worried that she and Max Bauer were now linked somehow in the minds of the other members of the émigré group.

            The second night of their vigil passed without incident until 1 a.m. when Bauer and Weiss were startled by the sound of shattering glass. On entering the kitchen, they found Weiss's black tomcat standing on the breakfast table looking down at a broken bowl it had apparently shoved onto the tile floor. Weiss gave the cat some fresh food, and the two men returned to the study.
            Even in the city that never sleeps, the sounds of cars passing in the street eventually subsided. Both men had been able to get some rest during the day, but fatigue inevitably crept up on them, and at one point, Weiss's head angled forward toward his chest. Before Bauer could rouse him, Weiss suddenly jerked his head upright. Awake and alarmed by his lapse, Jean-Pierre returned to the kitchen and made coffee for both of them. He also brought Max a confection from a neighborhood patisserie. Then they resumed their reading, and the evening passed uneventfully. For a while.
            A little after 4 a.m., Jean-Pierre nodded off again. This time, his head was comfortably nestled in the space between the back of his overstuffed armchair and the chair's right wing. Bauer waited a few minutes, then rose and approached the back of his companion's chair. Bauer's 9 mm Glock rested untouched in a shoulder holster under the left side of his jacket, but he reached instead into the jacket's right inside pocket and withdrew another item.
            Taking action before his own sense of fair play might assert itself, Bauer wrapped the strip of rawhide around Weiss's neck just below the larynx and pulled the ends of the cord with ungodly strength.
                                                                     .          .          .

            "Admiral, we've just received another message from Katapult," Leutnant Krebbs said.
            "Report," Canaris ordered.
            "Sir, Katapult has completed his mission."
            A lifetime of stoic self-discipline reinforced by his training in the German Navy and the Abwehr had served Canaris well, but the admiral could barely suppress his elation on hearing this. Now, even if Bullard were reelected, it wouldn't be Weiss's doing. Besides, Canaris had put into play a scheme to funnel money to Bullard's opponents in the America First movement. He was achieving exactly what the Fuhrer had instructed him to do; delay America's entrance into the war and provide German scientists the time they needed to complete their superweapons. Hitler understood more than anyone a fundamental aspect of modern warfare — it was a race.
            Recently, Canaris had been informed of Germany's plan to build what was being called the Amerika-Bomber. Piloted by brave volunteers, it would depart an airfield in occupied France and make a one-way flight over the Atlantic to drop a Heisenberg device on Washington D.C.  Once this happened, the war would end immediately. Canaris realized that the Fuhrer's skeptics were wrong; Germany could fight a war on multiple fronts. And win it.   
            "Admiral, Katapult's message has a second part."
            "What is it?"
            "Katapult states that in order to safeguard his cover within the émigré group, he had to kill a second member of the group, Urzula Dabrowski." On seeing the horrified look on the admiral's face, the aide asked, "Sir, what's wrong?"
            But the admiral stared at him in silence. Even dead, Raven's identity could not be revealed.
                                                                            End